


𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒

by Anonymous



Category: Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Multi, almost accidental murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22614451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: If your jam is an OOC!Archie killing his OC!Abusive!Girlfriend by almost-accident, written by someone whose exclusive experience with this fandom is watching episodes of the TV series with their parents when they were eight, and then one episode yesterday, LOOK NO FURTHER! Your dreams have been realised. If not, oh well. I guess not everyone can be tasteful.
Relationships: Archie Goodwin & Nero Wolfe, Archie Goodwin/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 3
Collections: Anonymous





	𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒

**Author's Note:**

> anon cause I know it's bad and I know nothing about the fandom. 
> 
> but if you're coming here through my profile then… shhhh. 
> 
> fuckin love how it starts off with an alright tone/characterisation and then rapidly deteriorates into very OOC nonsensical bullshit. excellent work, me.

Suzie was a tough broad, that was to be sure, and she could complain too-too. I'd been keen when I first set eyes on her, perhaps because she'd been keen on me. She was also a blue-eyed blonde with a comely figure, so no surprises there. 

She wasn't… the best girl I've known. She was pushy. Sometimes it felt like I hadn't a prayer of making her happy at all. She always had something to complain about. She said I didn't appreciate her. That I didn't love her. She was always accusing me of things like that, you see. 

And maybe she was right. Maybe I didn't love her so well. But each time I tried to end it, she'd start getting all teary, and say she knew she wasn't good enough for me, and now I didn't want her anymore. It's not all that great for my feelings. 

I suppose she doesn't know that though, or she wouldn't say it, would she? 

“I knew you were going to throw me away,” she says through her tears when I try to end it. “You don't think I'm good enough.” So I always take it back. I have to. I don't want to see her cry. I can't see her cry. 

She argues. When she argues, she  _ argues _ . About the tiniest things. Maybe I didn't sound happy enough when I said ‘hello’ that morning. Maybe I gave her a bad kiss. Maybe I wasn't spending enough time with her, or I'd looked at another girl (when I swear I hadn't). Any one of those can result in an argument that she picks that can last hours. It's alright, though. 

I'm sure she doesn't mean any of the things she says. 

She slaps me around a bit, when she argues. It's not as if I can't take it; I  _ am  _ the man, after all. But it's not as if I can hit back, is it? I'd be bound to hurt her more than she could ever hurt me. And the bruises are light, anyhow.

Sometimes I do pity her knuckles, although I'm hard pressed not to pity my cheek more. Or my arm, or my torso. Although her knuckles never seem to bruise quite as bad as I do. It's the shins that are the worst, really. The toes of those shoes she wears, you see, they're the killers. 

But in any case, she's a lovely thing. Even when she's screaming at me for no reason, or something I don't think I did, she's lovely. When she grabs my wrist and digs her fingernails in so hard it draws blood, she's lovely. When she elbows me in the gut she's lovely. 

But the more time I spend with her, the greater a sense I feel that I'm doing something wrong. She wouldn't be so hurt by me that she'd hurt me back like this unless I was doing something wrong. I don't know what it is, but it must be something. There must be something wrong with me, to be failing this badly.

The more time I spend with her, the more exhausted I get. The more I feel like she's right, that I am doing bad things. I'm at fault here, I must be. I must be, or she wouldn't hurt me like this. 

I must be. 

🀣🀣🀣

“What do you mean you're _not in the mood_?” she's screeching at me. “What kind of bullshit is that, you bastard?!”

I flinch and look down. “I just don't feel like it right now, sweetheart,” I try and console her. 

“Oh, you ‘just don't feel like it right now,’ is that it?” she shouts, staring me right in the eyes, half-dressed and angry expression inches from my face. “I do it for you when I don't feel like it, you know!” she shouts. 

Suddenly, I feel horrible, guilty, selfish, foolish. 

“I can't believe you'd be that selfish!”  _ Selfish _ . “Everything I have to put up with, everything that I've done just for you, and now you refuse to do this  _ one simple thing _ for me!”

Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm selfish. Maybe she's too good for me, only keeps me around out of generosity. 

I blink back a feeling of inadequacy, and pull off my tie, unbuttoning my shirt as she tugs hurriedly at my belt. 

🀣🀣🀣

It's evening, and it starts off pretty simple. There's a tension in the air and I stay still, quiet, because I don't want to aggravate the tension. I don't want her to start yelling, hitting. 

But she manages to start it all on her own. All she says is “How did you like the dinner?” But there's danger in her tone, and I swallow, preparing for the worst. 

“It was lovely, honey,” I tell her quietly, my tone almost scared. 

“Really?” she asks, clipped. “Because you weren't smiling.”

“I… I didn't think to smile,” I say. “It was lovely, honey,” I repeat, practically in desperation. 

She stands up with a huff, so quickly it almost makes me jump, and she grabs me, pulling me along by the tie, into the kitchen. There's two unwashed pots on the stove. 

“All that effort I put in, for  _ you _ , and you're not even grateful!” she shouts. 

I think back hesitantly to the soggy spaghetti and dry, blackened meatballs, and wonder for a few moments if what she's saying matches reality. But after she starts shouting again, I can no longer entertain the thought. 

There are unshed tears in her eyes, tears of fury. She's shivering with it, and I know exactly what is about to happen moments before it does. There's a smack as she slaps my cheek with what I believe is as much force as she can muster. 

It throws my head to the side and my skin stings loudly. I too blink back tears, but not of rage. 

“Tell me you're grateful!” she screams. 

“I am; I'm grateful, Suzie, I promise!” I tell her quickly. I can't fight back, I can't fight back, I can't fight back…

“Did you like the dinner?” she shouts again. I can't answer, my tongue won't move. “Did you like the dinner!?” she yells in my face. 

“Yes,” I lie loudly, quickly. “Yes, Suzie.”

“YOU LIAR,” she screams. 

“Well I couldn't tell you because I knew you'd get upset!” I retaliated. 

“I'M UPSET ANYWAY, AREN'T I?” she returns, grabbing a knife from the chopping board as she does so. 

I back away, trying to distance myself from an armed, enraged Suzie, and there's an odd fear, different to any other fear I have ever felt, that grips me tighter the longer I stare in horror at what is before me. 

“It's not my fault,” I say, and compared to Suzie's screams, it seems like a whisper. 

“Everything is your fault,” she shouts. “Say it, say it, ‘everything is my fault.’ SAY IT!”

“No,” I mutter. 

“Say it NOW!” she screams, brandishing the knife. 

I panic. “NO,” I shout, and my palm connects with her cheek.

She falls to the floor, exaggeratedly sobbing. “YOU HIT ME,” she wails through the tears. “YOU HIT ME SO HARD I FELL.”

I can't believe what I've done. I feel horrible, awful, terrible. I kneel down beside her and place my hand on her shoulder. 

“YOU'RE A TERRIBLE MAN,” she continues yelling. “IMAGINE WHAT THEY'D SAY IF THEY KNEW WHAT YOU DID TO YOUR GIRL.”

“I didn't want to hurt you, sweetheart,” I say, wishing she'd stop crying. “But I can't apologise. I didn't like the dinner, I couldn't help it.”

Suddenly she stops crying, and I freeze aware that I've failed again in some way, dread building up in the handful of seconds of inaction between us. Of silence. 

Suddenly, she launches towards me with a screech, making a wild stab at me with the knife that's still in her hands. 

I scramble back, avoiding the blade by inches, and pull myself hurriedly to my feet, backing away. She's advancing with the weapon, closer and closer, and I jolt as my back hits the wall. Closer, closer, closer… I can feel that primal fear mounting inside me, that sheer terror one experiences when one is sure their life is about to end. 

Blindly, in a panic, I reach out with both hands, and they connect with her chest, shoving her backwards. She stumbles back, then she stumbles forward, and trips over her own feet as she tries to reach out to me. 

She falls forward, and there's a disturbingly wet  _ shunk _ . 

After what may have been full minutes of shock, I do not know, I feel a terrible sense of doom as I fall to my knees and turn her over. The knife is protruding from her chest, it pushed in under the ribs, it's going up towards her heart. 

Despite her grave injuries, when she sees me, through moans of pain, she still manages the energy to scream, “YOU STABBED ME, YOU TRIED TO  _ MURDER  _ ME, YOU'RE INSANE.”

But I feel more grounded, more sane than I ever have, as I pull the knife out of her body in one swift motion and throw it down beside me. As blood begins to pour rapidly from the wound, she panics. “NO, NO NO NO, NO NO…” she's saying like some kind of mantra, reaching up to her chest and trying to cover the wound. 

My knees are wet with red, the blood pooling across the floor I'm kneeling on. When I hear her terror, her protests, I too reach forward, and press my hands against the wound in her chest, panicking along with her. No matter how hard I press, the gaping wound's red tears still manage to slip slickly through my fingers. 

Desperately, I force the knife back into the wound, and she gasps. For a few moments her eyes meet mine, and she can no longer shout. I know she wants to, but she can't anymore. And then she starts to lose her grasp on what's around her, and her eyes unfocus and slip their contact away from mine. 

I stare at her face and I can feel her fear, it breaks my heart six ways to sunday, but my hands are wrapped around the handle of the kitchen knife, and I push. I push it into her further until she stills. 

I wipe my bloodied hands on my trousers and leave, going home, covered by nothing but the dark of night to hide the red stains that pepper me. 

🀣🀣🀣

**Author's Note:**

> yeah there's gonna be a second chapter. it's probably going to be worse than the first one so don't get too excited if you choose to stick around.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Archie Goodwin Chose You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25959853) by Anonymous 




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